Brand Blotters - Page 9/180

The little hand that held the running iron was trembling. Looking up, the

tenderfoot saw that she was white enough to faint.

"I can't do it. You'll have to let me hold him while you blur the brand,"

she told him.

They changed places. She set her teeth to it and held the calf steady,

but the brander noticed that she had to look away when the red-hot iron

came near the flesh of the victim.

"Blur the brand right out. Do it quick, please," she urged.

A sizzle of burning skin, a piteous wail from the tortured animal, an

acrid pungent odor, and the thing was done. The girl got to her feet,

quivering like an aspen.

"Have you a knife?" she asked faintly.

"Yes."

"Cut the rope."

The calf staggered to all fours, shook itself together, and went bawling

to the dead mother.

The girl drew a deep breath. "They say it does not hurt except while it is

being done."

His bleak eyes met hers stonily. "And of course it will soon get used to

doing without its mother. That is a mere detail."

A shudder went through her.

The whole thing was incomprehensible to him. Why under heaven had she done

it? How could one so sensitive have done a wanton cruel thing like this?

Her reason he could not fathom. The facts that confronted him were that

she had done it, and had meant to carry the crime through. Only

detection had changed her purpose.

She turned upon him, plainly sick of the whole business. "Let's get away

from here. Where's your horse?"

"I haven't any. I started on foot and got lost."

"From where?"

"From Mammoth."

Sharply her keen eyes fixed him. How could a man have got lost near

Mammoth and wandered here? He would have had to cross the range, and even

a child would have known enough to turn back into the valley where the

town lay.

"How long ago?"

"Day before yesterday." He added after a moment: "I was looking for a

job."

She took in the soft hands and the unweathered skin of the dark face.

"What sort of a job?"

"Anything I can do."

"But what can you do?"

"I can ride."

She must take him home with her, of course, and feed and rest him. That

went without saying. But what after that? He knew too much to be turned

adrift with the story of what he had seen. If she could get a hold on

him--whether of fear or of gratitude--so as to insure his silence, the

truth might yet be kept quiet. At least she could try.